Every boarding house has its star boarder. At Mrs. Breen's his name was Reggie Morris. Reggie drew forty dollars a week as a member of the Biograph stock company and wore a different suit every day. Before the Biograph engaged him he had been a small-time song and dance artist. He gave us to understand that he was on intimate terms with Mr. D.W. Griffith, to whom he always referred as Griff, and who was the prevailing subject of conversation at those meals Reggie took with us. We were greatly impressed, as Mr. Griffith apparently made no important decisions without consulting Reggie. So conversation at mealtime was confined to a monologue, with a few queries and exclamations interjected by the rest of us. One day I said I would like to meet Mr. Griffith.
"You ain't the only one," Reggie said.
"A lot of people say I'm a Griffith type," I ventured.
"You never heard me say it," said Reggie.
"He looks like Walter Miller, only much slighter," said Mr. Ridgely.
"What if he does?" said Reggie. "There's regiments of near Walter Millers, Bobbie Harrons, Owen Moores and Reggie Morrises outside the Biograph six days a week, and that's as far as they get."
One day I got Reggie alone and asked him if there was really no chance of getting a job at the Biograph. I said I was not in a hurry, but everyone said that to get with Mr. Griffith was to make good.
"You got to have a swell wardrobe to get anywhere at the Biograph," said Reggie, looking at my Brooks Brothers suit. "How many more suits you got?"
"Two more," I said.
"Like that one?"
"Yes, Brooks," I said.
"Two too many," said Reggie.
"Who's your tailor?" I asked.
"Monroe," said Reggie.
"Where is his place?"
"Where you from, anyway?" said Reggie. "Never heard of Monroe clothes?"
He shook his head and went over to the mirror to see how he looked in a salmonpink silk shirt.
"Broadway. Walk up one flight and save five dollars. Fifteen bucks a suit. My wardrobe set me back two hundred bucks, not counting shirts, shoes, sox, ties and underwear. Got to be a slick dresser if you want to get anywhere at the Biograph."
This sounded encouraging. You could not get a suit at Brooks for less than forty dollars.
"One day," said Reggie, "Griff says to me: 'Reggie you're sure there when it comes to' —yeah, what is it?...come in."
He was working on a purple bow-tie.
"I just brought those silk handkerchiefs, Reggie," said Mrs. Breen beamingly.
"Put 'em on the bed," said Reggie without turning.
Mrs. Breen came over to the mirror. "I ironed them myself for you," she said. "Look."
"Fine," said Reggie without looking. "Put 'em on the bed,"
At the door Mrs, Breen said:
"Now, Reggie, don't forget to remind Mr. Griffith about my stylish dresses, and if he needs me for any society scenes be sure and let me know in time to get my hair waved."
A letter came from G.B. saying that he expected to be in New York shortly, and would pay me a visit at the studio. Both he and his wife were very interested to see how motion pictures were made.
Recently, very little work had been coming my way. I sensed there was some thing wrong, for I had only had three days work since the Preston Kendall talking picture. I knew I could count on Sol to call me when he had a chance and did not press him beyond inquiring every evening if there was anything doing the next day. For nearly three weeks his reply had been the same:
"Sorry, kid."
One evening, knowing he was calling twenty extras for the following day, I did press him. He was evasive at first, but when I said that if he had something on his mind he would be doing me a good turn in speaking up, he did. Mr. Plimpton had left orders to refer me to him in case I asked for work.
"Jesus, kid, I didn't have the heart to tell you," Sol said.
I went straight to Mr. Plimpton's office. His secretary, whose desk was in a little railed-off space outside it, was not there, so I knocked on the door. I thought I heard a voice say 'Come in', and opened it. A blond young woman was with Mr. Plimpton. He jumped up at once.
"What the devil do you mean by walking into my office without knocking?" he demanded, very red in the face.
I stammered something about his secretary not being there, and I had knocked, and thought I had heard him say 'Come in'.
"Harrison said you wanted to see me," I finished up.
"I did tell Harrison to send you to me," he said. "Because I am quite convinced there is no future for you in the motion picture industry. And I see no reason why you should deprive people of work who have possibilities."
He turned his back on me. As he sat down he said:
"I am leaving orders that from today, Saturday, you will be refused admittance to the studio."
I went straight to Preston Kendall's office.
"Did Plimpton hear that test I made?" I asked him.
He shook his head.
"Why?" he inquired.
"He just told me there was no use coming around any more as he was giving orders not to let me in the studio."
"Only two people have heard that record," Mr. Kendall said. "They're right here."
When I told him what had happened he said everything was for the best, and to run over to the Biograph and try to see Mr. Griffith.
"I'll never forget how swell you've been to me," I said. He laughed and patted me on the back.
"You'll come out all right," he said. "Want to take your voice test along?"
"No," I said, "but put it on some time when Plimpton is around."
I stopped on the way out to say goodbye to John Collins and Mr. Rough, whose eyebrows and moustache were sprouting again, and Jack Chisholm, the head property man. Sumner Williams was not there when I went up to his office as he went home early on Saturdays, so I left a note on his desk. On the way down I saw Sol. He came over to me. Without waiting for me to speak he said:
"Beat it over to the Biograph, kid, D.W. will put you in stock or I'm a lousy guesser."
"I'm going over right away," I said.
"If you see a chance for me, let me know. I been in this dump two years and I'm still drawing twelve bucks."
Outside, from the street corner, I looked back regretfully at the studio. And then, as I turned down 198th Street, I ran into G.B. and his wife. They had come all the way from the McAlpin Hotel on 33rd Street to see how motion pictures were made.
I did not know what to say or do. I had too much pride to tell them I had been given the gate, and tried hard to think up a logical excuse for not showing them the studio. Mrs. G.B. was quite upset when I told her that visitors were not allowed in the studio.
"Well," she said, "in your last letter you said Mr. Andrew Carnegie had visited it, and he looked like my father, only redder in the face."
"Mr. Carnegie may be a shareholder in the company, dear," said G.B. I could see he was hurt and disappointed, but his intuition told him all was not well. As I walked down towards the subway with him he said:
"Is there anything wrong, son?"
"It's all right, G.B.," I said, "but the rule about visitors is very strict."
Instead of seeing the studios we went for a walk in Van Courtland Park. After we had had a drink at a soda fountain I left them at the downtown subway entrance. G.B. held my hand a long time.
"God bless you, son," he said. I never saw him again....
I went back to my room and got out my bankroll. I had $110. and a few cents....That slogan flashed through my mind: Walk up one flight and save five dollars....Excelsior!
I began to pack my suitcase.